Books

I own more books than I could read in a year. Of those, I have not read three quarters. One endeavour of mine this year as I embark on further study at university is to read much and often. Even then, I collect books so much faster than I can do anything with them I fear the cost of moving my library even across town by the time I reach an age of maturity in which I attain lodging of my own.

The majority of books I collect—more recently—are historical; I would the reading of books were as addicting to me now as their purchase. I had an old habit, once, of spending more time in the page than perched before the screen. The dilapidation of my character falls as rapidly as my reading, of any book—as does my proficiency with the written word in speaking and writing, both fictional and semi-abrasive (as I qualify this particular piece of work, in that it grants heavy abuse to any involved in the reading of it).

I should like to write a guide for those fallen out of love with reading seeking to spring back into such a euphoric state; alas, my qualifications lack. In time, this shall be my final goal. For now, I stand with all those who have found time and deficiency in good discipline to turn them from a preferred path.